


Warm

by story_monger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Pre-Series, Weechesters, gencest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:24:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2734169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_monger/pseuds/story_monger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean shifted his body toward the rumpled shape of Sam and let his base instinct take over. He shuffled over and sat on the edge of Sam’s bed, still cognizant that he didn’t want to wake Sam up. He just wanted to sit there for a moment and let the world stop squeezing and warping around him. He needed to get his head on straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm

Dean stared out the passenger window as he and Dad rolled back into town. Dad’s silence was prickly, the kind he developed after a bad hunt.

When Dad broke that silence with something about decompressing at the bar they’d passed earlier, Dean jerked his head over a tad too quickly. Technically speaking, Dean knew he was allowed to join him. In reality, this was Dean’s cue to say no, he wasn’t feeling the bar tonight. Dean saw how Dad kept touching at the finger-shaped bruises around his neck. Purple-red and livid. Dean could have prevented those and he didn’t, and Dean didn’t have the impudence to go get drunk.

When Dad dropped Dean off in front of the motel, he warned Dean to check the salt lines and to be ready to go in the morning. His voice was curt.

Dean watched the Impala rumble away, then made his way to the motel door and fumbled out the keys. He let himself take note of his body’s complaints that had piled up. Knees sore from crouching in the same position too long. Shoulder bruised from the ghost throwing him around. Dusty from grave dirt. Cold. That was the worst one. Just really freaking cold. His legs and fingers were stiff from it.

Dean eased the door open, tried not to let it squeak. He closed it with as much care, then swept his eyes over the dim room. One of the twin beds sat untouched; that would be Dean’s. Sam took the other bed, sprawled all over it like the starfish sleeper he was.

Sam twitched and mumbled. He was probably dreaming of math and English lit. Dean watched Sam in the ambient glow of orange sodium streetlights and shivered because the motel’s radiator was cheap and Dean was still freezing. Tired. Angry at himself. Freezing and tired and angry and the empty motel bed looked so freaking unfriendly that, in a rush of what must have been hormones and leftover adrenaline, it felt to Dean like the greatest tragedy in the world. He’d overshot and missed the ghost right when Dad needed it dissolved, Dean was filthy and smelled like dirt full of putrefied flesh particles, he couldn’t quite feel his legs because his jeans were thin and ragged and did jack shit against November cold, and just to top it all off, his bed looked about as inviting as a slab of concrete.

Dean shifted his body toward the rumpled shape of Sam and let his base instinct take over. He shuffled over and sat on the edge of Sam’s bed, still cognizant that he didn’t want to wake Sam up. He just wanted to sit there for a moment and let the world stop squeezing and warping around him. He needed to get his head on straight.

Dean sat in silence for less than five minutes before Sam squirmed and shifted and eventually lifted his head.

“Dean?” he asked in a small voice. Everything physical about Sam was small, which was hilarious because the other stuff—his smile, his goddamn intelligence, his stubbornness—was big as a house. It blew Dean away sometimes, the way Sam worked.

“Sorry,” Dean said, shifting on the bed and making it groan. “Go back to sleep.”

“You kill the ghost?” Sam asked in a thick voice.

“It’s gone.”

“You okay?”

“We’re okay.” Pause. “It was close. I screwed up.”

Sam gazed at his brother through sleep-mussed eyes, then abruptly held his arms straight up into the air like he was channeling his toddler self. Dean was in a weird enough mood for him to bend over and wrap his arms around Sam, to let Sam fold his arms around Dean’s neck. Dean rested his forehead against the pillow and felt his chin dig into Sam’s shoulder.

“You stink and you’re cold,” Sam scolded. He then tightened his grip on Dean, tugging him down. Dean gave in, shucking his boots and folding back the blankets and sliding in next to his brother. They let go of each other long enough to squirm into new positions, to kick each others’ shins and complain and then to twine into one another again. Sam pawed aside Dad’s old leather jacket, all impatience, so he could impersonate a leech on Dean’s torso. Dean arched around Sam and shivered again when the November chill he’d brought along met Sam’s tiny furnace. The kid always ran warm, and Dean sort of loved him for it.

“You’re getting dirt all over the blanket. And you’re _freezing_ ,” Sam reiterated. He dug himself deeper into Dean with a sharp huff, like banishing Dean’s chill was just one more task on his busy itinerary, and Dean had better appreciate the time Sam was giving to this.

“Imma shower,” Dean mumbled into Sam’s hair. “Brat.”

“Shut up.

“Mmph.”

Dean really did intend to roll away and stumble to the bathroom for a shower. In a minute, though. He had until morning and Sam was warm.

 


End file.
